


lingua franca

by inflame



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bars and Pubs, Break Up, Canon Divergent, Character Study, Childhood, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Komori Motoya best cousin award, Love Languages, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, let's all treasure Sakusa, slow burn I think?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26527579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inflame/pseuds/inflame
Summary: There’s something more to love, he decided. And he was going to find out about it.Or, Sakusa Kiyoomi learns about the Five Love Languages.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 28
Kudos: 212





	lingua franca

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wondered about Sakusa's personality so I decided to do a character study-ish drabble that led to this whole thing. It's the longest fic I've published so this is a huge milestone for me. I hope by the end of this fic, you also treasure our boi, Sakusa. He deserves all the love in the world.
> 
> Thank you to [Jhemerlane](https://twitter.com/gr8breadtender), [Jana](https://twitter.com/yachisoba_) and [Sen](https://twitter.com/owohoseok) for beta reading this work. I owe you guys a lot.
> 
> Enjoy!

**** Nothing is sweeter than love, all other riches  
second: even honey I've spat from my mouth.  
_-Diane J. Rayor, Sappho's Lyre_

\----

It takes shape in many forms as it materializes itself to fit one’s needs. It never falters, it unravels itself little by little until it becomes something completely different than one’s first thought. It breaks a person the same way it could make them whole. It can be literal, figurative, metaphorical, dramatic, simple. It has many faces, it speaks different languages, and Sakusa Kiyoomi knew nothing, absolutely nothing about it.

He asked them about love at age three. What it is, and what it isn’t. It makes a person happy, although it can make them sad, as well. It could make them laugh, but it could also make them cry. Kiyoomi was more confused than before. “Can I see it?” He asked them. They taught him that it could manifest in different things. “What things?” His parents looked at him, puzzled but in the end they smiled. Later that day, he was given a gift, a small red car he longed for in the store a few blocks away from his house. He felt happy, ecstatic even, as his eyes examined the car that fit his hands perfectly. His parents said because they loved him, they gave him that car. 

_Ah_ , he realizes as he wipes his new toy down with a tissue. _So that’s love._

He’s sitting in his bedroom, the toy still in his hands as he drags it across the floor. Love, he called it. He brought Love all around. In his pocket, in his hands, in the mall, in the bookstore, in the grocery store. It was always with him, never leaving his side. Until one day, after a month or two, Love became just a small red toy car. He didn’t know what to do. And so, not wanting to see disappointment in his parents, he pretended. He still brought it around, it was even in his bag as he entered nursery. Until one day, he looked at it and he felt tired pretending. He ran to his parents, at the brink of tears, and confessed. It was a year since it was given to him. It was three months in when he realized that it was just a toy. He confessed to his parents, awaiting for the scolding. Contrary to his belief, they reassured them that it was fine. “It happens all the time,” they explain. Then they asked, “but you still know that we love you, right?” Kiyoomi nodded. They feed him, bring him to school, give him presents when he turns a year older, pamper him when he’s sick. They love him. “Then it will be alright,” they said. 

“Maybe next time,” his mother began as they ate dinner, “you shouldn’t bring it all around so it feels brand new every single time.” 

“Because the love can get rubbed off?” He asked. His father choked on his water and he looked at him puzzled. 

“Yes,” his father cleared his throat. “Because love can be rubbed off.” 

He slept soundly later that night, knowing that it was fine.

At age five, they gave him a medium-sized model airplane and unlike the red car, he placed it on top of his book shelf out of reach, out of sight. He loved it, so he decided and he should take care of it, and only touch it to clean it so he won’t stop loving it less. They continue to give him presents every year, and the top of half of his shelf was for his gifts, and his gifts alone. Thanks to his mother’s advice, the love he had for each lasted longer than the red car. He was thankful, but sometimes at night, he thinks that it could be more. Maybe, there’s something more about it beyond material things. Maybe he doesn’t have to see it to believe that it exists.

When his last older sibling left the house, his parents felt the need to work more and so they were busier and couldn’t attend to any of the school events. It was fine, he told himself. They loved him, he believed. He was ten years old then, going eleven. He contemplated whether to ask them to attend Parent’s day and have that as his eleventh birthday gift. But, he overheard his father talk to his clients and scheduled a meeting on that day. His mother made plans, too. His parents knew so they asked his aunt if they could go with him and she complied, especially since she was planning to accompany his cousin, Motoya. Kiyoomi said nothing and nodded to the set-up. They gave him a console set and three video games on his eleventh birthday. He didn’t bother putting it in his bookshelf and placed it right next to it on the floor. 

There’s something more to love, he decided. And he was going to find out about it.

When he was twelve, he was visited by Motoya in his classroom. “Hey,” the other greeted. Kiyoomi only nodded. Despite being the same age, they were never close as they were complete opposites. Motoya was well-liked by other kids and had close friends. Kiyoomi was quiet and seemed disinterested at the idea of friends. They remained silent for a while, as Motoya stood awkwardly outside the room. 

“Do you want to play with me later?” He asked. 

“What?”

“Volleyball.” 

Kiyoomi thought hard. He knew about it, knew it was a team sport. He didn’t agree nor decline the invitation but he followed his cousin to the gym after school. He never failed to join his cousin during those practices since then. He trained hard, he became better, he began to excel. There seemed to be a foreseeable future in this sport for Kiyoomi. After all, it wasn’t difficult to make it his priority, as his parents were always away and there was no one to come home too. It was fine, he told himself, as he stared at the still closed console and untouched video games.

One day, when they were both in middle school, Kiyoomi asked why Motoya came to his classroom back then. The thought didn’t necessarily annoy him, but he merely wanted to know what made his cousin go. They were in their classroom, eating lunch.

“Do you promise not to get angry?” Motoya began.

“Fine. I won’t.” He said, but he didn’t know why the other said he would.

“My parents told me to invite you because you were always alone,” He began. “And I also wanted to get to know you better. All I know about you is that you have much older siblings and extremely busy parents. So it was the perfect opportunity to invite you to play volleyball. Who knew we’d be together since then.”

Kiyoomi remained silent. After a while, he said “I see.”

“Hey, you promised you won’t get angry.”

“I’m not. I’m thinking.” He replied. He truly was. He still thought about his dilemma.

“Are you still wondering why I did it?” 

“Did you do it because you loved your parents?”

Motoya, wide-eyed stared back at Kiyoomi. It is as if he asked him to share his darkest secret. After a while, his cousin snorted and began to laugh hysterically.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No,” his cousin breathed. “Not at all.” He said in between chuckles. 

“It’s just that I never knew you’d ask such a thing.”

“I get curious too, you know. I am human.” Kiyoomi said, but deep down he felt embarrassed. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked him. Maybe he should’ve waited another time. 

“But yes.” Motoya answered, finally. “I did it because I loved my parents, and I wanted to make them happy.”

“Okay.”

“That is my love language, after all.”

Kiyoomi froze and looked up from his bento box. _There was such a thing?_

“I’m sorry?”

“Love language. You know, Act of service. I do things for people because I love them.” Motoya said. “Is this your first time hearing about it?”

“Yes.” He said. 

“Basically there’s a list and when my mother read it, she said acts of service was my love language. It made sense because I felt happy doing chores, buying groceries, sometimes making my parents breakfast in bed. Things like that.”

“Ah.” Kiyoomi replied.

The other simply nodded and went back to eating.

_Love language. So there’s something more than just gifts._

“I’m sorry I laughed a while ago.”

“It’s alright.”

“You can just be so funny sometimes.” Motoya began to giggle.

“Go back to eating and clean your desk after.” Kiyoomi ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

Later that night, after dinner and excusing himself from the table, he was asked by his parents whether or not he had already played with the console.

“Oh, I haven’t,” He said. “I was busy with school and volleyball. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, we know you must be busy, like us.” Her mother said.

“Yeah,” he said as he went to his room. She seemed sad.

“Just like you."

He thought about it for a while. His parents must have thought that his love language would be receiving gifts, after that red car fiasco. Maybe _that_ is their love language but it would not be necessarily his. Maybe that’s why they keep giving and giving, because if it were them they would be happy. 

A few days later, it was his mother’s birthday and just like always, he had a gift. It was a book, one that he saw she was eyeing when they went to the shop together. And just like always, she’d hug him tightly, thanking him. Surprisingly, she whispered soft apologies as if she knew what was eating him inside. He sighed as he understood them better. Later that night, he’d open the console and play a game or two. He slept soundly until another thought came into his mind.

 _Will I ever find someone who has the same language as me?_ He decides he will figure it on his own.

He was sixteen when he learned about the third. 

After graduating middle school, he and Motoya entered Itachiyama Academy and signed up for their volleyball team. They were outstanding and got in immediately. They met Iizuna Tsukasa, then. He was a setter who took care of himself and the team. As someone who was responsible for the wellbeing of the players, he did a great job at it, if you asked Kiyoomi. He complimented the players when they were in their top shape and kept an eye on them when they weren’t. Kiyoomi was always doing his best, so Iizuna said nothing but praise.

“Nice kill, Sakusa!” He’d often say. 

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi replied.

Sometimes Iizuna would pat him on the back after their match and say, “You were great out there, today.” He would only nod.

Often, he’d sit beside Kiyoomi as they both watched the game that transpired. Their knees are close enough to touch. Iizuna sometimes pulled back, mumbling an apology, as the whole team, nay the whole school knows, that he abhors people invading his personal space.

But that was the thing. He did not mind at all. He wanted to say it was alright, but it didn’t feel right. He lies awake at night thinking. He thought about excuses. He was just being nice, he is always like that, he said sorry, anyway. Kiyoomi was always finding a reason to rationalize it. It made Kiyoomi _feel._ It was as if he had to excuse his feelings. What’s wrong with being happy? What is so terrible about feeling admiration? For a captain? For a boy?

He knew. He was unsure what to call it. He didn’t want to know and went to sleep.

The following days, he was still bothered by the same thing and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t perform badly during their practice match but Motoya knew something was different. On a Friday night, while they were practicing spikes just the two of them, Motoya approached him.

“Hey, are you alright?” He began. What use is it then hiding, when the closest person you know, knows?

“No.” Kiyoomi admitted.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.

“No.” He replied as he spiked the ball on the wall a little too hard it bounced back with the same speed beyond his reach. He ran after the ball. He didn’t make such basic mistakes before. It was killing him slowly. The curiosity, the uncertainty, the fear. What would happen if someone knew?

All this time, Motoya stayed silent, waiting.

As he bent down and reached for the ball. He sighed and spoke.

He told him about his uncertainties, his feelings, his worries, his fears. He talked about their captain, his compliments and what it does to him. He opened up about their moments together that he felt different about it. He then talked about the red car, the console, Parent’s day. He laid it all out. He spoke, spoke longer than before, and the other listened. It was a change in scenery, there was a shift in the air. 

After a while, Kiyoomi stopped talking. Motoya looked at him and smiled. Right there and then, he knew he had his back. Right there and then, he felt comfort knowing he had someone to confide in. Still, Motoya remained curious.

“So,” Motoya began as they walked home. “Do you think you’re in love?”

Kiyoomi thought hard. 

“I don’t know.” He finally said.

“It’s alright. It takes time, anyway.” His cousin replied.

“How long?”

“That I don’t know. It could take a week, a month, a year, a lifetime.” Kiyoomi felt queasy. 

“Well, how long did it take the…”

“Three months.”

“But he’s not a toy car.” Motoya said.

“No, He’s not a toy car.” Kiyoomi answered.

Motoya laughed and after a while, Kiyoomi laughed too. 

They never spoke about it again. Nothing changed in their relationship, their friendship, and Kiyoomi was back to normal. Everything was back to normal, and he accepted his feelings for his captain. It was a small crush, he decided, after five months of observation. A small admiration for the third year. The compliments continued and the feelings stayed.

Until Iizuna graduated, Kiyoomi’s feelings for him left too. It was a good year and a half. A regret that he’d always have was that he never told him, but he knew nothing would change even if he did confess. Iizuna would have still graduated, he would have still left Itachiyama. Nothing would change with an ‘I like you’. And so he said nothing. 

He learned later on that still, words of affirmation wasn’t his love language after all. He remained grateful for compliments, for affection, for the sincerity in their utterances. Kiyoomi would have a few crushes. Simple admiration, never went beyond a date or two. Never went beyond a hug or a peck on the cheek. It made him feel admired, but never loved. 

_So it wasn’t that, then._

The fourth one came into existence when Kiyoomi turned twenty, and it came in the form of dark olive-brown hair and olive eyes. In the form of an acquaintance, a rival, a star. They have met before, in middle school, in high school, and now in this low-lit, hidden bar that Motoya chose to celebrate Kiyoomi’s birthday in. Just as he, with their other university colleagues, were about to scream happy birthday, he entered the premises along with what seems to be the whole National volleyball team. Ushijima Wakatoshi’s eyes wandered around, still stoic, still intimidating. _He hasn’t changed a bit_ , Kiyoomi thought as he drowns in the out of tune merriment happening around him, overlooking the bar on the second floor where private parties could be held.

Wakatoshi’s eyes looked up and these landed on him, and the bar may be low-lit, occasionally bright with blue, violet, and red, with loud music all around them, but despite all these distractions,

His eyes softened. As if he was glad to see him. 

He whispers something to the player beside him and moves through the people, in the opposite direction of his team. His eyes remained on Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi returned his stare. After a while, he mumbled through his mask a simple thank you to everyone, especially to Motoya despite forcing him to celebrate his own birthday. They enjoyed the night after that. Motoya noticed Wakatoshi climbing the flight of stairs and signaled to Kiyoomi.

_Did you see him?_ He whispered.

He nodded.

_Did he see you?_

Kiyoomi nodded again.

 _It looks like it, since he’s coming now,_ he said out of breath as he turned around to talk to someone else.

He only sighed in response. Motoya never learned to be discreet.

“Hello,” Wakatoshi greeted. He was sporting a rather fitted black tee, jogging pants and plain black sneakers. His muscles became more defined as it reflects blue, violet, and red. “Long time no see.” 

“Hello. It has been a while,” The other responded. He moved on the side, as if to tell him to sit beside his bar stool.

“Happy Birthday,” Wakatoshi greeted as he sat beside Kiyoomi as they overlooked the rather sea of people.

“Thank you.” He said. “Congratulations on making it to the national team.”

“Ah, thanks. You should’ve come as well.” The other replied, as he rested his elbow against the countertop, the fabric at his sides stretching.

“No, I’d rather play in my university.” He said straight-forwardly.

“You have not changed a bit.”

“Neither have you.”

“That’s a relief.” Wakatoshi said and Kiyoomi did not know what he meant but perhaps it was the ambience of Tokyo, and the lack of Miyagi air in it that made Wakatoshi seem… vulnerable.

They remained at each other's sides, talking about volleyball, university, the national team, until they began to talk about themselves. People started to leave, and as Motoya left, they were now standing with one hand on their drink and the other holding the railings of the second floor, still overlooking the vast bodies crashing onto each other. 

“Do you miss Miyagi?” Kiyoomi asked.

“I do,” His eyes showed melancholy. “But I enjoy playing volleyball here.”

“Why?” Kiyoomi said, as he put his mask on his chin, and drank the bright orange drink. Wakatoshi raised his chin as he looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“It’s different. It’s pace is more matched with mine, and there’s a better chance I can go against you.” Wakatoshi finally said. Kiyoomi almost spilled his drink over an unknown stranger on the first floor, as he heard him for the first time that he’d acknowledged their rivalry.

“That’s right,” Kiyoomi said as he wore his mask again. “We weren’t able to play in your final year.” 

“Right.”

“Ah,” Kiyoomi said. “So is there?” The other turned his head to face him.

“What?”

“A chance we can play a game or two.” A drink, or two, or three must have started to talk. Because even Kiyoomi is no longer sure what he’s talking about. 

He knows that there is. He knows that it happens all the time, universities sending their best players to play against the national team. He knows he’s qualified to represent. He knows. And yet he asks. And the other, with his stoic, intimidating, yet softening eyes, against blue, violet, red, seems to understand. He leans in closer.

“There is,” he says, like a whisper.

There is. _There is._ Kiyoomi nods. Was it a test against time? Was he going to defile friendship and rivalry for the mistakes of alcohol? Whatever it was that truly did it, Kiyoomi, with his own volition, supported by four tequila sunrises, brings his mask down again to his chin, leans forward until his black locks brush against that of olive brown, and kisses Wakatoshi.

Kiyoomi finds out, under blue, violet, red, that Wakatoshi’s lips are soft and bittersweet. Their hands begin roaming at each other’s everything and nothing all at once, at each other’s necks, tracing down to their backs, holding their waists. Absent from care, their tongues bewitched by desire, their voice murmuring ecstasy. It goes on, and on, and on, their lips like magnets cascading one another. It was as if that was their way of catching up with the events that transpired in the last four years; grasping each other, breathing harder, holding each other tighter, fearing to let go. Wakatoshi wraps his arms around him and rests his hands against his back. 

_Don’t let go._ It seems to say.

 _I won’t go anywhere._ The other replies.

Into the night, Kiyoomi feels for the first time what it meant to be touched. To be held closer, to be warm against another body, to be tasted. Their silhouettes continue to dance with each other, a tango that wrecks havoc as fabric comes loose. Continuously lit by the moon and Tokyo, their torsos contort in agony, in passion, always accompanied by the sweet symphony of lust. Outside, the busy streets continue its boisterous hallmark, but there’s serenity in the sheets. There’s peace in the room, as they lay side by side, their fingers intertwined, finding solace in each other’s crevices. Chests still moving up and down, fingers tracing the marks left, eyes closed, tears dried. It is the first time Kiyoomi learns to betray trust and caution. It is the first time vulnerability felt like a strength. Many have tried and failed, and yet someone managed to climb the walls so effortlessly. 

_I_ _s this love?_ Kiyoomi thinks. _Is this what love is supposed to be?_

He remains unsure, but he never leaves the bed. Wakatoshi, however, does.

Another rendezvous, born out of a call, smirks on each end, begins a series of what seems to be a secret language shared between the two of them. Kiyoomi does not complain, but he wonders what these are. Week after week, in Kiyoomi’s flat or Wakatoshi’s apartment, in a motel, in a hotel, in the backseat of a car, their language continues to be established. Unlike previous dates, they’d rather skip the pleasantries. What use is it for them when they’ve known each other for almost six years? Kiyoomi does want to know what their language meant. Did it mean commitment, devotion, _love?_

Later after the third for the night, limbs bruised with kisses and desperation, he decides to ask.

“What is this?”

“Hm?”

“Are we… together?”

Wakatoshi thinks as he stares at their ceiling, his hand on Kiyoomi’s thigh.

“If you’d like to be.” He asks. He turns to his side and meets Kiyoomi’s eyes. “Would you?”

Kiyoomi thinks. Will this be a decision he would regret? He never felt like this before, let alone be seen as more disheveled than the marks they’ve made on the bed.

“Yes.” He finally answers.

“Then we’re together,” the other replies, like a matter of fact. Their lips meet once again.

Kiyoomi wanted to ask if he loved him, he wanted to ask if this is love, but he decided against it, settling for the belief that it was.

_Maybe it is._

Much later, he learns how touch could feel electric. How invigorating it feels to be the center of attention, to be looked at with those olive-brown eyes, seemingly ignited by hunger. No longer initiated by liquor, they’re running on pure lust and care. Affection he spelled it with his tongue, yearning he spelled with his bare hands and lust he spelled with his long fingers. Kiyoomi learns the language of love spoken by Wakatoshi in a matter of six months. Six months of passionate nights, that only the two of them knew. The world belongs to them, and them alone for six months.

Which meant that after such time, the love for Kiyoomi spent his whole youth on searching, finally comes crashing down in the form of a goodbye that was formed even before their relationship began. Their beginnings felt like a lifetime, their ending felt like seconds. No explanations needed when Kiyoomi was the one to see the plane ticket on the coffee table, just as he was about to remove his coat. An end was guaranteed, sealed in by a passport and a contract in Poland, before there was even a beginning. Before he even asks if they were committed, his foot was one step out the door, and the other remains inside with Kiyoomi clinging onto it. At least, that’s what it felt like.

_Maybe it is and that’s all there is._

There was no need for “what is this” nor “how could you do this to me”. No, Kiyoomi who spent his childhood days wondering what love could feel like has discovered that if whatever that was would be defined as love, that if love could climb walls easily, if love could tear those barriers down, it could also build these back up in a swifter pace. Kiyoomi feels cold, he expects to cry but he doesn’t. He feels empty, a piece of him left in this apartment that was about to be leased to someone else. Their marks will be removed, their history will be revised, and their language will cease to exist. Wakatoshi knew all along, Kiyoomi on the other hand, didn’t. So instead of anger and pain, he asks one simple question, a question that could be answered by a yes or a no.

“So, was there even a chance to begin with?”

Wakatoshi does not raise his head up like he always does when he thinks. He doesn't spend time looking at the ceiling. No, he’s done thinking about his future and what it holds. There were no choices to be made, to be decided on, because Kiyoomi never made it to the cut. 

He returns Kiyoomi’s gaze. The final period to their six-month story. And so he leaves.

Kiyoomi leaves the apartment, with his dignity and feelings smearing on the pavement as he drags his feet. He walks aimlessly, forgetting directions to his apartment that still smelled like Wakatoshi, that felt like love. He walks, and walks, the clouds begin to share his own sentiments as they crowd together under one sky in Tokyo. He finally stops and looks up to the only place that remotely feels like home. He climbs the stairs and knocks on the door, waiting for a response. He stands as rain begins to pour outside the complex. Suddenly the door bursts open and his cousin stands in front of him in white tee and pajamas. Usually he would comment on it still and yet he only feels the burden of emptiness, of what was left of him. And so he remains silent. Motoya moves instinctively closer but still remains cautious. 

“Kiyoomi,” He calls out as if Kiyoomi was miles away. He is. He is still in that apartment.

“He was leaving,” He began. Motoya does not ask who nor what he means by that. He simply moves an inch closer. Kiyoomi feels like he could faint, and so he moves an inch closer. He does not mind at the moment because he does not feel like himself anymore. He feels like a vessel of what used to be Sakusa Kiyoomi but shaped into someone who he no longer recognizes. And so he moves an inch closer into the arms of his cousin, who absolutely knows nothing.

They remain still, the harsh sounds of rain hitting the ground and the roof. Motoya wraps his arms around him, slowly, carefully, like the fragile glass shards that he is. Broken, torn apart, by the unadulterated conception of love. He cries, then.

They enter the room and Kiyoomi lays all that he has hidden the past six months, his birthday, Wakatoshi and his departure. Motoya, the kind soul that he is, never gets angry at him for hiding such things. He is here, asking, begging for company and that is what exactly he will provide. He doesn’t leave Motoya’s dorm room for two days. He does, eventually, but the nothingness does not subside.

A few months later, he tries to forget, to trace back his steps in hopes of removing every memory by replacing it with a newer one. Yet, Kiyoomi finds out again, under blue, violet, red, that he could still feel the ghost of his fingers. He could still remember vividly. He does not drown in intoxicants with the hope that another familiar face or a stranger would sweep him off his feet and save him from this hell of emotions. Rather, he settles with the knowledge that things cannot be undone and leaves it at that. His life will go on, he will play for his university, he will graduate. 

But he makes a promise to himself, a plea to the gods, to whoever is listening right now.

_If that was love, if it resembles at least a facade, then let me experience anything but it._

Kiyoomi no longer wishes to learn the language of love. He remains content, forced to believe that there were only four. He spends the rest of his days in the gym, in the court, in Motoya’s apartment, in his home that was refurbished, repainted, reconstructed to remove any trace of love, of what it is and isn’t. He leases it right away after graduation, leaving only with his clothes, his degree, and a contract in Black Jackals. His mother sends a few of his belongings, but it will be kept inside his closet. No, he does not wish to touch it. No, he does not wish to remember innocence. He wishes to live his life away from Tokyo, and start anew. 

He knows he’ll be homesick, he knows Motoya is on speed dial, he knows he can come home anytime.

He doesn’t know Osaka, not even a little bit, nor what it could bring. Nor what it could offer.

And so he chooses Osaka. 

The first day was hell. Moving, signing contracts, introductions. Kiyoomi is not particularly fond of people, but he can get along with teammates, those who he can work with, those who can match up his pace, those who respect boundaries. But there is a reason why he remained by Motoya’s side up until university, and that is because his cousin attracts all the people instead, and so they leave Kiyoomi alone. Now that Motoya signed with a different team, he remains alone. He’s suddenly ten again, alone, with no one to seek solace to. But he needs to get used to this. He needs to rebuild himself. He has been for the last two years, and he is doing better than before.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi?” He turns around and sees him.

He’s suddenly sixteen again, and sees that vibrant yellow blonde dye atop a smug face, with disdain. He remembers that player was cunning, a great setter, but still difficult to hang around with. He was loud, crass, everything Kiyoomi was not. And so when they met at the youth camp six years ago, he remembers their first conversation. A taunt, a snide _don’t mess up my sets, Omi-kun._ He has been subjected to troublemakers and bullies a lot due to his preference for isolation, so Kiyoomi just looks, nothing new. Another insult, nothing new. It’s troublesome, but truly, nothing new. 

But now, he’s twenty-two and he sees that boy _again,_ staring down at him with wide eyes as he stretches his legs for the fifth time today. This time, he is now sporting a lighter shade but still blonde, with a bigger build, but still has that same old smug face of his. Kiyoomi only remembers then that this was Miya Atsumu’s domain. 

“Miya.” Kiyoomi replies.

“What are you doing here?” Kiyoomi resumes his previous work.

“Stretching.”

“I can see that. So you also signed with the Black Jackals?” Miya sits beside him. Kiyoomi looks the other way.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He replies. The other scoffs.

“Same old, Omi-kun.” Miya begins to stretch as well. Given his physique, it seems that the boy, man, does not seem as reckless as before, Kiyoomi notes.

“And I told you to stop calling me that, Miya.”

“And I told _you,_ ” Miya turns his head sideways to look at Kiyoomi. “To call me Atsumu.”

“No. You’re not a relative nor,” Kiyoomi stops and sighs. 

“Nor what?”

“Nothing, Miya. Get back to stretching.” He resets his daily counter. It has been zero days since he remembers his ill fate.

“Hey, you’re not the boss of me.”

“And yet you’re stretching.”

“Jerk.”

Only then has Bokuto Koutarou entered the gym, with his signature glee and booming voice. Kiyoomi feels like he’s going to have a headache. It was going to be a long day, a far too long year and possibly more. At the back of his mind, he feels a bit scammed to know that signing contracts did not involve any prior knowledge about his teammates that is about to ruin his life. At least he has a story to tell when Motoya calls at night.

The MSBY Black Jackals is home to many volleyball players all over the country and so they have a designated board and lodging near the training facilities. Because Kiyoomi couldn’t go home every single day, or even a house to go home to, he is rather forced to stay here in this four-floor building that seemed to be brand new. He remains cautious, and enters the establishment. His room was on the third floor, fourth door to the right. He opens it and begins his work. He carefully carries his items and belongings inside. He scrubs, cleans, almost removing the paint from every single surface he could see so that it seems even cleaner in his eyes. He will live here, therefore he must make it his home. His home is not in Tokyo, it’s now in Osaka. His home is where he is at, not where he came from. He needs to remember these things. As he unboxes the final bag where all of his clothes are, a horrendous loud noise can be heard from the next door, something in between a scream and an attempt at singing. He drops his head. He just knows the universe is playing games with him, trying to break him even more because what are the odds that Miya Atsumu is not only his horrid teammate but also his neighbor? The odds are high, even higher as he hears a knock and a call.

“Omi-kun!”

His cousin will laugh so loud and burst his eardrum when he learns about Kiyoomi’s bad luck.

He sighs and makes the mistake of opening the door.

“What do you want?” Miya couldn’t see but he was fuming through his black mask.

“Nothing, actually. Just,” He scratches the back of his head. “Just wondering what you’re up to.”

“I’m cleaning.” Kiyoomi says.

“Isn’t this place brand new?” Miya asks. He shrugs.

“So you always clean like _this_?” He points at the numerous cleaning products on the table.

“Only when I know you’re around.” Kiyoomi responds.

The other smirks.

“So you are capable of jokes.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

“Two jokes in one day, are you feeling alright, Omi-kun?”

He really wasn’t. He should have ignored and pretended to be asleep and now he’s acknowledging his presence.

And so their life begins. Kiyoomi in 404, Miya in 405.

Every morning he is there, in the common bathroom, sleepy bed head and full of drool. 

“Good morning Omi-kun,” He greets. 

“Don’t call me that. It’s Sakusa.” He points out, in case he has forgotten. 

“Looks like you woke up on the right side of the bed then, Omi-kun.” He smiles as he brushes his teeth. 

Kiyoomi ignores him, even when they go to training together, even when they eat in the lunch hall, even as they say good night. Only time can tell when Kiyoomi can get used to Miya’s noise. But Kiyoomi is patient, and so he promises to get used to it. He has no other choice. He is not coming back to Tokyo any time soon.

Their training as well as their matches go well. They find out that it was easy to sync with each other, with Kiyoomi’s flexibility and tenacity during the games and Miya’s accommodating sets that never stray away from perfection and ease on the side of the spiker. The Black Jackals maintain their status in V.League Division 1 thanks to the fresh new players. With their recent win after a year of practice, they set out for a local bar to celebrate in. Kiyoomi was about to decline but Meian Shugo, their captain, blocked the door as he was about to leave, saying that it was their first time hanging out and so he was forced, _yet again,_ to go to a bar and celebrate. Apparently, this type of scenario follows Kiyoomi every single time as he finds himself surrounded by blue, violet and red. _Yet again_.

He does not drink and watches his teammates spend their night away, slamming their bodies against strangers, shouting lyrics of songs being played by the DJ, as Kiyoomi remains seated, hand held on his drink, still full. Someone taps his shoulder and he hesitates to look until he realizes the fingers felt smaller and so he does. Miya looks at him strangely and proceeds to scream at his face above the loud music.

“Aren’t you going to dance?”

“I don’t dance.” Kiyoomi says.

“Stop being a coward,” Miya replies. He begins to tug Kiyoomi to the dance floor. “Dance with me.”

“No,” He says again.

“Just one dance.”

“No.”

“Oh come on, what’s wrong with just one dance?”

“Everything.” Kiyoomi raises his tone.

“Are you afraid?” Miya asks. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Kiyoomi stops moving and stares down at the man. Everything feels tight, the club seems smaller, and the world appears to be spinning. He sees flashes of people, of events, and he wants these to end. It’s been a whole year since he remembered Wakatoshi. It’s back to zero, thanks to this damn club, thanks to blue, violet, red, thanks to Miya. He twists his hand away from the other man’s hold and slams his glass on the table.

“I’m leaving.” He replies as he walks towards the exit, and out into the freezing weather of Osaka before he could hear an apology.

Later he sees the date on his phone and realizes why everything felt familiar, why everything seemed to align against his own wishes. He calls Motoya and he feels comfort at the end of the line. The night may end horrible, but at least he is home. He is finally home.

In the morning, there was a knock again as he was making coffee. He stays still, hoping that the person at the door doesn’t know he’s home. The voice calls out.

“Omi-kun, are you home?” Kiyoomi stays still.

“Sakusa?” He does not respond again.

“I think I saw your shadow through the door a while ago, but it can still be from the alcohol. Anyway, I know you’re home since well, you’re always home but I just,” Miya sighs from the other side of the door. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Kiyoomi holds his breath in anticipation.

“I’m sorry I forced you last night. It wasn’t my intention at all to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m sorry,” He stops and Kiyoomi senses hesitation. 

“I was the one who forced Meian-san to ask you to join. I’m sorry I pulled you towards the dance floor even if I knew you didn’t like people touching you. I went over and beyond your boundaries and I’d understand if you no longer want to be teammates. It would suck, considering how we just won but I’d respect your decision. Osamu always told me that I always end up on any person’s bad side. I can see why, and I’m trying, god knows I’m trying. So, I’m sorry, Sakusa.” He hears a loud thud and a yelp. 

He smirks as he puts his mug to his lips. _So he can be a gentleman._

“Of course you could be away and I just talked to the door for the last minute or two.” Miya says. 

Kiyoomi puts down the mug, walks to the door, and opens it to see Miya rubbing his forehead, assuming that it was his head that caused that smack against his door. He refuses to laugh. He puts his palm up in front of him as if to say, _I’ll speak first._ Miya remains quiet.

“It wasn’t completely your fault I left. I just remembered,” He pauses. He wonders how he could phrase it. “An event that traumatized me. And it involved clubs, so.”

Miya nods his head.

“But it’s alright. I’m,” He pauses again. “I’m alright. We’re alright.”

“We’re alright?” Miya asks once again.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi says. 

Miya sighs in relief.

“Can I call you Omi-kun again?”

“No.” Kiyoomi looks at him and he looks rather pale from a hangover. He goes inside while the other waits outside. He appreciates the hesitance. He grabs a packet of tea from his cupboard and gives it to Miya.

“To help,” He looks away. “With the hangover and those large bags under your eyes.”

“Thanks,” The other picks the pack from Kiyoomi’s palm. “And that’s mean.”

Kiyoomi snorts but Miya will pretend he didn’t hear it and risk another conflict. Even if there wasn’t one to begin with. He likes to play safe with Kiyoomi, and learn more about him.

They’ll be alright.

As the days and months go by, Kiyoomi gets used to Atsumu’s idiosyncrasies, and Atsumu gets used to Kiyoomi’s habits. They frequent the lunch hall together, they reserve the gym for their late night practices, and even during their days without training they find themselves in each other’s company in the common living room as one sits at one end of the couch and the other sits on the other. A silent agreement, an acknowledgment of boundaries. Kiyoomi learns to be at ease with the man. Their conversations grow longer beyond banters, friendly insults and common pleasantries. It began one late night when neither of the two could sleep and so they resorted to go out at the same time and stay in the common area. There it begins, a curious question, an honest answer. Back and forth. They learn more about each other beyond the confines of volleyball. _Where do you go home to, did you grow up there, how was your childhood, what’s it like having a twin, what’s it like having much older siblings._ What is unraveling is a friendship, a companionship built by being subjected to distance and solitude. They both had homes in other places and they uprooted themselves from there to play here. Despite reasons still being hidden, they find themselves enjoying the company more and more.

Kiyoomi could not pinpoint what was happening. He is not sure whether he is in favor of it, or will he reject what was bubbling within him. What he is sure of, rather, is the existence of this unknown middle ground both of them share. And he wants to hold onto it. 

They learn to appreciate the permanence of their pace, a language Atsumu spoke that Kiyoomi is continuously learning. A language he has missed in the past. The fifth and final one.

It’s been two years since he has joined the Black Jackals. He learns new things about Atsumu every single day. He learns that he gets homesick often and so he requests for his brother to send him his homemade onigiri every two weeks so he never runs out of stock. He learns that Atsumu is afraid of ghosts and otherworldly beings and so he gives him a flashlight, a whistle and a charm for his birthday, as a joke. He learns that he actually likes reading and so he gives him a book, a book that he loved reading as a child, as the ‘serious’ gift. 

He learns that Atsumu laughs the hardest when he’s with him. He learns that whenever Atsumu serves, he looks at Kiyoomi first. He learns he doesn’t look at any other spiker. He later learns what it meant. He learns that he seeks stability and he gets it when he looks at him, Atsumu says quite sheepishly. He wants to learn why. He learns that he only attends parties when Kiyoomi is there and stays behind with him when he doesn’t. He learns that he doesn’t miss Osamu as much when they’re together. He learns that when they’re together, Atsumu is never afraid of anything, of failure, of loneliness. 

Atsumu learns that Kiyoomi prefers dogs over cats. He learns that Kiyoomi despises dirt and mess and lack of hygiene much more than his initial judgment. He learns that Kiyoomi actually prefers coffee over tea like a madman. He learns that Kiyoomi is not afraid of anything, except loneliness, something that he will never admit any time soon. He learns that he takes time to tame his curls during the morning, and he avoids letting other people know by getting up too early for it. He learns that he counts every single time he touches the ball. He learns that he tries for a hundred sets each training. He learns that he’s been doing that since he was a kid with his cousin. He learns that Kiyoomi laughs without covering his face when he’s with him. He learns that he laughs with his eyes closed, while the softest giggles escape his lips. 

He learns that he may be in love with Sakusa Kiyoomi. He learns that he’ll take his time. He learns that they have all the time in the world. And Sakusa Kiyoomi, as he learns, needs nothing else but time. He only wishes he reciprocates his feelings.

A year and a month later, Kiyoomi realizes he shares the same sentiments. Kiyoomi learns that when he hears Wakatoshi’s name, his heart no longer tumbles down, nor does it break like he did as he walked down the streets of Tokyo. He no longer winces at the date when it flashes on his cellphone. He no longer needs to call his cousin. He simply needs to go next door and knock, and someone will always open the door. And it’s always going to be Atsumu.

Two months later, Atsumu learns about Wakatoshi. Kiyoomi learns about Kita. They hold each other for the first time. They don’t kiss, nor do they spend the night together. They just stay within each other’s reach, without words, understanding the pain, the pleasure of what it was and wasn’t. They understand love, what it gives, what it takes. They understand comfort beyond familial ties. They understand time, and what it could grant them.

Winter finally becomes spring, and Atsumu leans in while he is cooking in Kiyoomi’s apartment and Kiyoomi meets his lips in the middle. It’s soft, chaste, pure, absent of uncertainty and doubt. 

“I like you,” Kiyoomi says.

“Good, because I don’t think I could wait any longer.” Atsumu replies.

They smash their lips once more. Atsumu reaches up to wrap his arms around Kiyoomi’s neck. Kiyoomi reaches down and puts his hands on Atsumu’s waist. They stay like this for a while until the boiling pot of water calls their attention. They postpone their merriment, but their fingers remain intertwined. A message pops up Kiyoomi’s phone from Motoya. It says, “happy birthday, Kiyoomi. How are you going to spend your birthday?” He shows it to Atsumu. Atsumu only laughs.

“Guess he’ll be the first person to know,” He says.

They eat their dinner peacefully, until Atsumu spots a CD player sitting on the table near the television. 

“You listen to music?” He asks Kiyoomi.

“Rarely. My mother just sent me that.” He replies. It was true, he rarely listens to any song, and he doesn’t even have a CD. He wonders why she even bothered giving him that without anything to play.

Quickly, Atsumu leaves 404 for a few seconds and returns with a tape in his hands. He fiddles with the player while his tongue is sticking out, like a child admiring a toy. Kiyoomi smirks to himself as he sees the whole ordeal. Then, he hears a piano riff and the voice of a woman. An old tune, a slow song, he observes. Atsumu goes back to him and offers his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Kiyoomi looks at him puzzled.

“I don’t dance, remember?”

“That’s fine, I’ll teach you.” Atsumu smirks.

Kiyoomi sighs in protest, but he still reaches out to Atsumu. He knows he doesn’t dance, but he still rests his elbows on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Atsumu puts his hands behind his boyfriend’s back. By that time, a trumpet plays a continuous melody as they swing to and fro the living room. 

“You’re doing well.” Atsumu notes.

“I said I don’t dance.” Kiyoomi says. “Never said I couldn’t.”

“Cheeky, Omi.” Atsumu says as he chuckles.

They dance around the living room, watching their own silhouettes blend in together, they laugh as their shadows overlap with another, the moon illuminating their bond. They have their own spotlight, it seems. He feels he has completed his search. He thinks about Love, his old red car inside his closet and when he’ll tell Atsumu about it. He thinks about the stories he’ll tell Atsumu in the future. He never did that before. Everything feels right, Kiyoomi realizes. Just then, Atsumu smirks, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking about.

“Funny story.” Atsumu says.

“What?”

“I actually forgot to bring a player.” He says. “I accidentally brought that tape, and every time I look at it, I wonder, when I’ll ever get to hear it. It’s my favorite song, you know?” 

It was playing for the fourth time, tonight.

“And now,” Atsumu begins, as he sways. “You have a player.”

His eyes spell endearment. 

“I have a player.” Kiyoomi repeats.

His smile spells devotion.

Spring waits until it becomes summer when Atsumu first spends the night. They go slow, never risking, always cautious. In their pure state of bareness, Kiyoomi leans in and kisses Atsumu. His lips feel like he’s drowning in clouds, gentle and innocent. His touch is intoxicating, never electrifying. He could never get enough of Atsumu, nor could Atsumu ever get enough of Kiyoomi. Their hands, fingers, explore each other’s worlds, their voices linger in the room as chests begin to heave, as their hold onto each other begin to deepen. Yet, he never feels pain. He never feels pain, only pleasure and security. They look at each other in search for assurance. They find it. Finally.

 _I’m not going to hurt you,_ his lips seem to say.

 _I know,_ the other replies.

The pace, the touch, the pleasure varies through the night but their feelings, constancy and all they’ve built through the years stay all the same. The sheets get tangled, messed, but their vision is clear, brown and jet black eyes full of affection. Their names they’ll whisper on each other’s lips as if murmuring a prayer, a promise. They hold each other tighter, vowing never to let go. Not one wonders whether this is the right choice. Not one wishes to know what the other thinks. Not one is unsure of their decisions.

 _This is love._ Kiyoomi decides. _This is what love is supposed to be._

They never leave the bed in the morning. 

Their clothes are left on the floor, but Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind the mess he’ll find in the morning. Because against the sun that’s about to rise is Atsumu’s sleeping face, his mouth slightly open as he hugs the pillow tightly, while he lays on his side. In the morning, the glare annoys Kiyoomi, but he can get used to this scene, he tells himself. He plants a kiss on Atsumu’s cheek and the other smiles,

As he whispers an _I love you_ to the pillow.

Kiyoomi feels tears prickling. 

_I’ve found it._

_I’ve found you._

He kisses him again.

As they clean the dishes later after lunch, Kiyoomi asks Atsumu.

"Hey,"

"Hm?"

"What's your love language?"

Atsumu stops rinsing the glass and thinks. He tilts his head up and closes his eyes, deep in thought.

"Quality time," he replies after a while. "You?"

Sakusa smirks. 

He has found him, alright.

Summer becomes autumn, autumn becomes winter, winter becomes spring. The world continues to spin on its axis, life goes on as they pursue their professional volleyball careers. But, Atsumu never stops being Kiyoomi’s, and neither will Kiyoomi stop being his. They know every single thing now, met every single family member, know each other’s weaknesses and strengths. They fight every now and then, but it remains light, instances such as Atsumu forgetting to clean his side of the kitchen, or when Kiyoomi accidentally overwrites Atsumu’s path on a game. Nothing that is not solvable by a slow dance and a kiss. 

They’re moving again, boxes remain outside the door as Kiyoomi scrubs, cleans every single spot, corner, crevice. Atsumu remains outside, promising not to bother Kiyoomi and continues to sign papers. Once Kiyoomi is done, they begin putting their things in. Their clothes, their plates, their CD player and tapes. Kiyoomi’s gifts, now sit atop a bookshelf Atsumu got specially for those gifts so he could see them. Atsumu’s childhood toys, scribbled with _Tsumu_ on their feet. Their pictures, their trophies, all of them are finally in their _home._

“Hey,” Atsumu calls out.

“Hm?” 

“Where do you think we should put Love?”

“Huh?”

Kiyoomi turns around and sees the small red car.

“Ah, Love.” Kiyoomi says. It’s been a while since he’s seen it, but now it rests on the palm of Atsumu.

“It must have fallen out of the box.” Atsumu says like an apology, knowing that he was the one that packed them.

“It’s alright,” Kiyoomi replies right away. “Right where we can always see it.”

“You sure?” Atsumu asks. “You’re no longer afraid love will get rubbed off?”

Kiyoomi smirks and shakes his head.

“No, I’m not afraid anymore.”

Besides, Love is now standing right there, holding a red car, his hair a blonde mess, his smile exhilarating. But, he won’t tell him now, not right away. He’ll let time dictate their path. Right now, in their shared apartment, in a city that’s their home, this will be enough. The universe gave them time, and time they will spend wisely, slowly, in each other’s arms.

“Alright.” Atsumu says and puts it near their keys by the front door. They continue with their chores as Kiyoomi reminisces.

_“So,” Motoya began as they walked home. “Do you think you’re in love?”_

_Kiyoomi thought hard._

_“I don’t know.” He finally said._

_“It’s alright. It takes time, anyway.” His cousin replied._

_“How long?”_

_“That I don’t know. It could take a week, a month, a year, a lifetime.”_

“It could last a lifetime,” He whispers to himself.

Kiyoomi sure hope it does.

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, I hope you've recovered from that rollercoaster.
> 
> Here's the [playlist I made for this specific fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3tkpLCo0aO4Z4FGecExbws?si=s5aqqcOBSaOb1zPYG_wlag)
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/inflamist)


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